


We Meet, We Fall, I Remember

by exfactor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exfactor/pseuds/exfactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We meet many times in our lives. We fall again and again. </p>
<p>I remember everything about loving you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**We meet.**

_THE DAILY COLLEGIAN  
  
**Lexa Woods: A Celebrity in Our Midst**_  
  
_September 27th, 2012  
by Clarke Griffin  
  
A burgeoning celebrity walks our hallowed halls. She's not an actor or a musician, nor is she an inventor or a certified genius. She's not even a celebrity - yet. But she will be.  
  
She's the one you see from across campus, school-issued backpack slung across her back, hair pulled back in a messy braid, reading glasses just barely falling from the bridge of her nose, soccer ball at her feet. Soccer ball always at her feet.  
  
She's the one you see across the aisle in the lecture hall, hand raised, pen to paper furiously scribbling notes. She's quoting Machiavelli and Sun Tzu, while soccer dwells at the back of her mind. Soccer always on her mind.  
  
But you may not notice her. She's not a celebrity yet._  
  
_You would never know that she was almost an Olympian this past summer. Almost. She missed the roster by the tiniest of margins.  
  
"Almost doesn't mean anything in competition," she says. It sounds like she's putting together her own set of Sun Tzu quotes. Maybe _ The Art of Soccer?  _She doesn't crack a grin when I suggest it._  
  
_The fact is, had any player on the national team been hurt, she would have been flying to London to play with the team. She would have an Olympic gold medal tucked away somewhere on campus, maybe hanging above her bed or nestled in a drawer in her nightstand.  
  
"It was a great opportunity, to try out for the Olympic roster. I'm grateful for the chance and I hope I might again have that chance a few years from now." She says, stoic and solid, green eyes almost uncomfortably boring into mine. College athletes aren't this put together. I make a note to search her name later. This demeanor must come from a lesson learned - a bad interview freshman year, maybe? (Alas, no such "lesson learned" exists. This is just who she is.)_  
  
_She is Lexa Woods. If you've never heard her name before, you're hearing it now. You better believe you'll hear it again. You'll hear it echoed from television sets across the country, if not the world._  
  
_"Lexa is absolutely the next generation of soccer players for our national team," says women's soccer coach Indra Trikru. "She may not have made the roster this past year, but she is a rising star in the federation. She'll be the first pick in the professional league draft this summer. She'll continue to be invited to national team camps. She will be a star."  
  
She's all reservation and introversion sitting here in front of me, but it's clear that she doesn't lack for confidence. There's something in her eyes that screams fire and passion.  
  
On the field, that reservation is nowhere to be found. The fire in her eyes oozes into her pores and sparks her teammates' drive to win.  
  
"Lexa has made me the player I am today," says senior co-captain Octavia Blake. "Off the field, she has a quiet leadership style that's a little surprising at first. If you don't know her very well, she doesn't say much, but she's present. It's weird, but it's like she's lingering in your mind. She knows what you want and how to give it to you. But then once she's on the field, it's like another person has taken over. Her voice is commanding, she knows what she's doing. You trust her completely and in an instant. Everyone on the team trusts her."  
  
Woods is demure in her response to Blake's quote. "It's about getting to know what motivates each player on the team and then tapping into that."  
  
When I press her, she elaborates: "Off the pitch, people don't want to be told what to do, so you have to get to know them. You have to get to know what they think about before a game, what music they listen to, how they like to stretch during warm-ups, what drills they like. Once you get to know them, you can create an atmosphere for them. We try to create a zone for each member of the team. A place in-season, out-of-season, during practice, during team events, where each individual feels like she's a key to our success, from our reserve goalkeeper to our leading striker."  
  
I ask her how that quiet leadership changes during games. "Once it's game time, once the stress levels ratchet up, you can't be quiet anymore. In times of distress, people want a leader. I try to be that leader."  
  
Coach Trikru believes that at least some of her leadership is thanks, in part, to Woods' academics_.  _She may not be a certified genius, but she's an uncertified one. As long as her grades continue in her senior year, she'll graduate summa cum laude from the highly competitive Arkadia Business School. She's one of just three student-athletes enrolled in the school._  
  
_"To be frank, Lexa's one of the top students I've ever seen come through the program, athlete or not," says business leadership professor Thelonius Jaha. "She's got an innate understanding of what people want and how to tap into that. She knows how to motivate, how to inspire, and how to succeed."  
  
Woods' credentials are so impressive on the academic front that some of her professors have lobbied her to continue her education in the graduate business school next year. "Her skills will translate to nearly any field of business," Jaha says. "That's what's so interesting about Arkadia Business School. As a student-athlete, Lexa's been able to explore her leadership both on and off of the athletic field and she certainly has a lot of promise, no matter which path she chooses next."  
  
Woods hasn't made any decisions about her future, at least not that she'll share with me. "I'm fascinated by it all. One of the things I've most enjoyed about my time here is that I can do both. I can apply what I've learned in school to my time on the field and vice versa. I hope that those lessons continue to intersect."  
  
While we don't know where we might see Lexa Woods after she graduates next year, we can be sure that we'll see her again. _  
  
_The top-ranked women's soccer team plays their next home game in three weeks at Sky Stadium._  
  
  
  
  
**We fall.  
**  
Lexa's bundled in a knee-length blue team parka. Her hair spills out the sides of her long braid and from beneath a thin headband that holds the curls back from her forehead. Her sweat has long since washed off and now it's just rain that mats curls to her skin.  Clarke's teeth are chattering and she knows her lips are probably at least a little blue.  
  
She hadn't told Lexa that she was coming. She thought that might be weird, anyway. They'd only talked those two times and exchanged a handful of emails to arrange those meetings.  
  
Lexa is in the stands now and Clarke's not sure that she sees her. This stupid poncho. It should have cost less what she paid, but since she was unprepared, she'd had to buy it at a concession stand on her way in. (Who knew that soccer games were rain or shine?)  
  
She's not one hundred percent sure why she's here. She'd written about this game at the end of her last feature story. She'd written about it and she figured that she should go to it. She hadn't gone to that baseball game after she'd written about Finn Collins last year. She hadn't gone to that engineering event after writing about Raven Reyes.  
  
Yet here she was.  
  
The soccer stadium's not far from her apartment, she tells herself. And she needed a break from studying. Another reason.  
  
It's definitely not the promise of those green eyes. One hundred percent not.  
  
"Clarke," Lexa's standing in front of her, cleats making her just an inch or so taller than the last time they'd been next to each other. Clarke looks up at her and offers a shy smile. "I didn't expect to see you here. Thanks for coming." Lexa's voice has lost a little of the edge she had in their first meeting, but not much.  
  
"I had to see you in action," Clarke replies. She doesn't want to give too much away, but she wants to walk the line.  
  
"Are you telling me that you wrote that whole article without watching a game?" Lexa replies. Clarke can see just the barest hint of disbelief, like maybe someone's just told Lexa that tomorrow's classes are canceled.  
  
"I googled some clips," Clarke says with a smirk.  
  
She sees Lexa study her eyes, then trail down to her smirk. "I see." Clarke can't tell if she's disappointed or surprised or happy that she's here.  
  
"I don't really like sports," she says before she realizes that maybe Lexa Woods, star student-athlete and future national soccer team member, will not find that charming. She wants to slap her hand over her mouth, like she used to do when she was a kid and slipped newly-learned curse words into conversations with her mom.  
  
"You're the sports writer for the college newspaper," Lexa says, and there's definitely some more of that disbelief bubbling to the surface. Lexa's lip is quirked and one of her eyebrows is raised and Clarke wants to freeze this moment because Lexa never looked at her like that during their interviews. (And Lexa's never been captured in pictures looking like that either. Clarke should know. She's done the research.)  
  
"I'm a features writer, actually," she says, as if that will get her off the hook. She hopes it will.  
  
"Well," Lexa raises an eyebrow in surprise. In reality, she doesn't have much time to peruse the school newspaper, so she wouldn't know if Clarke's picture were pasted there every week. (It is. She writes an advice column, too.) "I hope the game was satisfactory."  
  
"'Satisfactory,'" Clarke mimics in Lexa's low rumble. "It was fun."  
  
"I'm glad."   
  
They stand in silence for a moment, Lexa looking between Clarke's eyes and the bleachers.  
  
"Well I'll let you go so you can greet all of your adoring fans," Clarke says as her eyes look back to the stands. She figures that the rain kept most people away, but she doesn't know how many people typically come to women's collegiate soccer games. There are a few young girls dressed in team replica jerseys, clutching soccer balls. Their parents look cold and miserable. There's clearly a section of team members' parents huddled under the awning, steaming cups of coffee and hot chocolate warming their hands.  
  
"Yeah all three of them. There," Lexa points to a shuddering trio huddled under a blanket in the parents' section.  
  
"Who's that?" Clarke asks. She's torn between letting Lexa go and pressing for more. Ask her and she'd say it's because she's a journalist and she's always curious. But no one's going to ask her, so she can keep the real reason to herself.  
  
"My mom and dad and my sister, Anya. My adoring fans," Lexa says with a sad smile.  
  
"Oh come on, that's cute." Clarke says. She allows her mind to wander for a moment and she wonders what that little family was like. Maybe her mom yelling at Lexa to hurry up as she warms the engine in the minivan. Maybe her older sister braiding Lexa's hair while they watch a soccer game on television, the sister sitting at the edge of the couch and Lexa's knobby knees tucked against her chest as she sits on the floor. Maybe her dad grabbing his video camera from the table before hustling Lexa off to a tournament.  
  
"They come to every game."  
  
Clarke smiles for a moment, watching Lexa watch her family. "What do you guys usually do after the game?"  
  
"Oh they go home." Clarke remembers that home is a couple of hours away. She didn't talk about it with Lexa but she did her research. She'd done an interview in her senior year of high school. Clarke had found it deep into her search, several pages back. Lexa had mentioned that she wanted to be near her family and win soccer championships and this was the school to do both. Lexa's senior portrait accompanied the picture and it doesn't elude Clarke that Lexa's jawline is more defined, cheeks thinned out and more sculpted.  
  
"What about you?" Clarke presses.  
  
"I don't know. The team usually has a party, but I have a lot of homework to catch up on since we've been traveling so much." Clarke remembers looking at the schedule. They'd played four straight games on the road. "I'll probably lock myself away in the library for a while."  
  
"No celebrations at all? You guys just beat one of the top-ranked teams!" She was hoping Lexa might have some party animal alter ego hiding under the surface. She could tag along and everything would be easier with a couple of drinks.   
  
"How do you know they were top-ranked? You didn't even know what soccer was before that interview."  
  
"I knew what soccer was," Clarke bites back with a grin.  
  
Lexa can only smile in return.  
  
"Do you maybe want to grab something at The Ark with me? Before you go study?" Clarke asks, her voice trailing off. "You have to eat, Lexa." She sounds a little bit like her mom and it makes her cringe, but she doesn't care. That line has always worked when her mom's said it to her.  
  
Lexa looks like she's weighing her options for a moment and Clarke wonders if maybe it's too soon for all of this.  
  
"Ok, I'll meet you there at six. Let me say goodbye to my family and take a shower first," she says. She takes another look at Clarke's blue lips and damp skin and adds, "Looks like you need one, too."  
  
  
  
Lexa interviews her this time around. Now that they're in the midst of it, Clarke realizes that their initial interviews for the paper were a type of business meeting for Lexa. She's not new to interviews. She's been doing them since high school.  
  
But this is a different Lexa. This is a talkative Lexa. A prodding Lexa. A looser Lexa. Clarke likes this Lexa. Not more than the other Lexa. But this Lexa just makes her like the complete Lexa that much more.  
  
She asks Clarke about her major, about the newspaper, about her mom. Two hours pass in the span of minutes and Clarke has barely touched her food.   
  
"You said you were uncomfortable, in that story," Lexa says, busying herself with the ketchup bottle.   
  
"What?" Clarke says, pausing with a mouthful of her grilled cheese.   
  
"In your article about me," Lexa says, looking up now. "You said you were uncomfortable. My gaze made you uncomfortable."  
  
Clarke's met with her gaze and she feels it again. "I didn't say that," she says, mouth still full. She chews and swallows quickly. She knows she said something like that, but she remembers fussing over that line. She remembers reworking it specifically  _not_ to sound that way.   
  
Lexa pulls out her phone and swiftly pulls up the quote. She reads aloud: " _She says, stoic and solid, green eyes almost uncomfortably boring into mine."_  
  
"'Almost uncomfortably.'" That's what she wrote. Not a very good cover up, clearly, since here it is, back to haunt her.   
  
"Fine, Clarke. ‘Almost uncomfortably.'" And Lexa just won't leave it alone. Clarke looks away and hopes maybe actually looking uncomfortable will mean that Lexa will drop it. A drink would make this easier. "Why?" Lexa asks.  
  
"Your eyes...just...," she starts, fumbling. "I have a hard time meeting your eye sometimes," she whispers. And now that they're talking about it, she certainly can't look across the table at Lexa. She watches her fingers under the table ripping shreds into her napkin, instead.   
  
"I'm sorry," Lexa says, suddenly embarrassed but unsure why.  
  
"It's not...you shouldn't be. You have beautiful eyes," she chances a glance and Lexa's looking back at her and Lexa's eyes soften. She hasn't seen them like this before and she can't look away now. She thinks maybe she can't ever look away again.  
  
"So do you."  


  
  
"Have you been with a girl before?" Clarke asks. Lexa's looking down at her, hair falling into Clarke's face, lips swollen, breath heavy.   
  
"Yes. I've only dated girls," Lexa pants, leaning into her neck and brushing her lips against Clarke’s ear. "Have you?"  
  
"Yes," Clarke whispers, and Lexa pulls back to look at her. Clarke can't see what she sees. "Does that surprise you?"  
  
"I don't know," she says, still looking at Clarke. She shifts her weight to balance herself on her left arm and pushes Clarke's hair away from her neck before dipping her head back down and dragging her tongue along Clarke's ear. "Maybe," she whispers.   
  
Clarke's used to using sex to fulfill a need. She hasn't been in a relationship since the middle of sophomore year. He broke up with her and after a few months, Clarke realized that she liked sex a lot more with other people, anyway. She's come to like it unattached. She's come to like making people break beneath her. She's come to like slipping out in the early morning.  
  
She's not used to this. Lexa's calloused fingers are delicate against her soft, pale skin. She touches reverently. She meets Clarke's eyes and Clarke knows she knows. Lexa's eyes don't make Clarke uncomfortable, they dismantle her.   
  
It feels attached.   
  
And it scares her that she likes it this much.   
  
"No," Lexa says against the top of her head, just before she's lost to sleep. If Lexa holds her this close, she knows she can't slip out in a few hours. She doesn't want to, she just wants a reason not to.   
  
"No, what?" Clarke asks, turning against Lexa so that she can look at her. She brushes some of Lexa's hair out of her eyes.  
  
"No, it doesn't surprise me that you've been with a girl before," Lexa clarifies in a whisper against her forehead before looking back at her. "I wasn't sure earlier."  
  
"But you're sure now?" Clarke smiles against her neck.   
  
"I'm sure now," Lexa confirms. She feels Lexa's hands trail down her back, soothing the scratches she thought she felt earlier in the night at the height of Lexa's pleasure.   
  
"You want me to give you more proof?"  
  
Lexa pulls back and looks at her, brow furrowed and eyes questioning. Clarke smirks at her and trails her fingers down to the inside of her thigh, still warm and sticky and Clarke swells with pride.  
  
"Oh," Lexa says, eyes widening. "Yes. More proof. I'm 99% sure, but not 100% sure."  
  
Clarke giggles as she pushes Lexa onto her back and presses her body into Lexa's.

  
  
  
"Are we dating, Lexa?" Clarke's been thinking about it for a while, not just since they sat down in this study room together. They're been on dates. They've been doing this thing, whatever it is, for more than a month. Clarke thought she'd be content to continue just doing this thing.   
  
But once Lexa closed the door to the study room and Clarke saw her forearms flex as she pulled book after book from her bag, once Clarke watched her push her reading glasses back up her nose for what seemed like the twentieth time, once Clarke realized that she'd been reading the same line over and over and over, she decided that now was as good a time as any.  
  
Lexa looks up at her from across the table. Her eyes bulge from beneath her glasses. It takes a few moments, but then she begins her stuttering, "I don't...I mean...I'm not..."  
  
"You are so cute when you're flustered." They've been at this long enough that Clarke knows they're dating. She knows Lexa's not seeing anyone else. She can tell by the way that Lexa looks at her that she doesn't want to date anyone else.  
  
"I want to be dating," Clarke adds, full of confidence where Lexa is not. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?"  
  
"Yes?" Lexa squeaks.  
  
"Is that a question?" Clarke wonders if she should back off of the confident angle for a moment.  
  
"Yes? No? Yes. I don't remember what you asked." she says and looks down at her notes, like there's an answer in there somewhere. "I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be yours."  
  
And Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. "Ok. Good."  
  
Lexa looks up and smiles, relieved for the both of them. "Do I still have to take you out on dates?"  
  
"If we're dating, we have to go out on dates," Clarke says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Do you not like taking me out on dates?"  
  
"I mean, I like spending time with you. And I like what happens at the end of dates. But I have so much stuff happening between school and soccer and these dates are stressing me out."  
  
"Well if we're not going out on dates, how are you going to spend time with me?" Clarke likes the dates. Lexa usually shows up at her apartment, gives her a chaste kiss, holds her hand as they walk somewhere just off campus. Clarke usually orders some extravagant cocktail with an umbrella and a vibrant color, kisses Lexa outside of her apartment door and pretends to say goodnight, drags her back to her bedroom and has her way with her.   
  
"Can you just come over?" Lexa asks. She's not serious, but she's serious. Dating had never lasted long with any of her other girlfriends anyway. She preferred to move right into the old married couple routine.   
  
"And do what?"  
  
"We can study together," she says slowly. Clarke frowns so she tests a few other options. "We can roll around in my bed. I can cook for you. I can help you take your clothes off at night. We can watch Netflix. We can pretend to watch Netflix."  
  
"Those things sound good," Clarke says. Lexa feels like she's fresh off the pitch. Her heart is beating a mile a minute and Clarke is grinning and she feels like she's won.  
  
"Which one should we do tonight?"   
  
"Study together?" Clarke tries.  
  
"No." Lexa shakes her head, with just the hint of a smirk.   
  
"Make me dinner?" Clarke tries again.   
  
"No." Clarke doesn't much like Lexa’s protein heavy diet anyway.  
  
"Watch Netflix?" Clarke continues.   
  
"No."   
  
"Well I guess you should choose." Clarke sighs faux dramatically. She knows what she wants. She wants Lexa to say it.   
  
"Let's roll around in my bed." The smirk is no longer a hint and Clarke reaches across the table and runs her fingers across the back of Lexa's hand.   
  
"It's a date."  
  
When Lexa looks at her, Clarke forgets to be scared. It feels like falling and somehow it's not scary at all.   
  
  


**I remember.**

  
I remember those days, Clarke.  
  
I remember you telling me a year after that article, when we were sitting on the couch at our new apartment, that you first signed up to write for the school newspaper so that you could interview hot athletes, go to some concerts, and print all of your class readings for free. I remember laughing and you gave me that serious look and then you fell into me, you were laughing so hard. Who knew you'd write for a living?  
  
I remember mock interviewing you on the phone one night while we were apart. Me in my hotel bed, whispering and buried under my fortress of sheets, you in our bed at home, our pictures staring back at you, that one bedspring creaking beneath you. You told me to ask you interview questions. You were preparing for your interview the next day with some major newspaper. I asked you about your favorite piece and you said your favorite piece was about the girl you fell in love with, the girl whose eyes you simultaneously couldn't meet and couldn't look away from. I remember feeling like I couldn't breathe under those sheets, inside my fortress. I remember you crying and saying you didn't mean to say it, that you meant to tell me when I got home. I remember barely listening because I was trying to find my voice to tell you I loved you, too.  
  
I remember when I got home from that trip and you picked me up from the airport and you told me you loved me in the car. It was too early in the morning and your voice was hoarse and I probably shouldn't have let you come pick me up, but I couldn't resist you. I could never resist you. You hugged me over the center console and I breathed you in and you whispered 'I love you' in my ear and I pulled back and looked at you. I made you say it again while I looked at you. In college, just before we started dating, you told me I had beautiful eyes. You shouldn't have told me. I learned very quickly that I could disarm you with them. In the car, I looked at you and you looked at me and I told you I loved you for the first time. I wanted to wait until I could look you in the eyes. I wanted to disarm you with it.  
  
I remember signing my name to the contract to buy that house on Mulberry Street. You wanted us to keep renting because you could pay rent, too, and that meant it was ours. Mulberry Street would never be ours, you said. We fought about it - that concept of 'ours.' I spent more than a few nights on the couch. I won't say I won that argument, because I always let you win, but you came to see it as ours. It took a while. I printed out so many articles and walked you through so many investment and loan projections and you ignored all of them and me in the process. I wanted to be mad at you, but you've always been so much better at being mad at me. In the end it was your mom who helped you see the light. One afternoon, you grudgingly met her for lunch and that night you came home and through gritted teeth told me when the moving vans would arrive.  
  
I wish I didn't remember moving. Unfortunately, I remember how mad you were when I suggested that we do some spring cleaning before moving. Somehow that meant that I was targeting you and your piles of newspaper clippings and stacks of magazines. You threatened to throw out my old pairs of cleats and practice shirts and business textbooks. Instead, we packed it all in our own giant plastic bins and relegated them to the new basement. I'm pretty sure I still have those cleats and you still have those newspaper clippings and we haven't thought about them since that argument.  
  
I remember that we were so tired on moving day that we couldn't even unpack any of the boxes once we were moved in, so we laid on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, your head resting on my chest as it rose and fell. My heart beat only for you. My heart beats only for you.  
  
I remember so many of those nights together in our house. I remember your messy blonde hair tickling my nose, waking me up. I remember asking you once if you could put your hair up when you sleep because you wake me at least twice a night. Each time that you did it, you put your hair in such a loose bun that it fell out with your tossing and turning and you'd wake me up again, clinging to me, head butting against my jaw, hair tickling my nose. Each of those mornings you'd wake up, angry that you lost another hair tie to the chaos of our bed. I found six hair ties when I changed the sheets a week after you gave up.  
  
I remember the first time I came home - back to our home - after being away at camp for weeks. My flight was late and I told you to stay home, that I'd get a ride. It was two o'clock in the morning when I opened the door and you were asleep sitting up on the couch in that blue silk robe I gave you for your birthday. You startled when I closed the door, even though I was as quiet as possible. And I could only smile when I saw you wipe a little bit of drool from your lip. It happens. My neck is damp most mornings after nights with you. It's one of the things I love about you. And I remember you sleepily sauntering over to me and your robe falling open and my mouth running dry and I couldn't move. Although falling asleep on the couch had never been a part of the plan, it was clear that you had a homecoming plan. It was clear that it involved that robe and what was underneath. When your body pressed against me after four weeks of skype calls and texting, I snapped out of my daze and nearly pulled my back picking you up and taking you to our bed with the creaking bedspring. It didn't matter that it was two in the morning. It didn't matter that you'd just wiped drool from your lips. It didn't matter that I'd have to spend five weeks adjusting my lifting routine to let my back recover. (Well, that part mattered a little. I mumbled something about lifting heavy groceries when the trainer asked me how I'd injured my back.)

I remember everything about loving you.


	2. Chapter 2

**We meet.**  
  
"Lex?" She picks up just before it goes to voicemail. The second time. The first time she ignored it, figured Lexa would just call her later. The second time, the man she's interviewing asks her if she needs to take it and she stumbles around for some sort of response before she finds herself in the hallway hitting that green button and whispering Lexa's name.  
  
"Hi," her voice is muffled into the phone, like it's right up next to her mouth. Clarke can hear her breathe.  
  
"Hi," she says. She knows it's a little impatient, but she can't help it. This story is big. And Lexa knows she's in the middle of an interview. At least she thinks she remembers talking to her about it last night. These nights full of hotel calls and sporadic texts are getting to her.  
  
It's silent for a moment and Clarke wants to ask what's going on. Lexa calls her each night, after their last practice, after her ice bath and her shower, after she's nestled in bed. Clarke knows that sometimes Lexa climbs all the way under the covers, in her fortress, so that she's buried and it feels like she's right there under the sheets next to her.  
  
But it's the middle of the afternoon. Lexa should be at practice. At camp. Across the country.  
  
"I'm coming home." It's almost inaudible, but Clarke hears it and suddenly she forgets that there's a man she barely knows on the other side of the door.  
  
"What? Why?" She's surprised and it comes out harsher than she means for it to.  
  
"I..." And now she knows she's crying. She can hear that gasp and sob. She's only seen Lexa cry a few times and the sound is etched into her mind far more than seeing it. The last time had been after a heavy night of drinking. Too heavy. They don't drink like that, but they did that night. Lexa had lost her temper and Clarke walked off and when they found each other later in the night Lexa's face twisted into this awful sob. Clarke told her through her own tears that it was fine, but Lexa was too far gone and the sobs only got louder and more heart wrenching. She hadn't needed to apologize because Clarke could feel it in her tears. (Lexa apologized anyway.)  
  
Her voice softens, "What happened, babe?"  
  
"I broke my..." whatever she broke gets lost in more tears.  
  
"Your what?" Clarke says after the sobs dissolve into a quiet whimper.  
  
"My toe," she says again through a hiccup.  
  
"Oh love."  
  
There's nothing on the other end and Clarke wonders if it was the right thing to say.  
  
There had been another injury. Nothing broken, but it nearly broke Lexa. A pulled hamstring in her first year in the pros that she just couldn't shake. Clarke had just started her new job and wasn't around much, but during that injury, they were at home. Lexa could go to practice every day. She rehabbed with her club team right alongside her. This one would be different. Just her. Alone. All of her teammates at camp. Clarke shook it off. She couldn't afford to be the one who thought like that right now.  
  
"I'll pick you up," she whispered. "Send me your flight information, ok babe?"  
  
"Ok."  
  
"Do you want to stay on and talk for a little while?" It's not that Clarke had completely forgotten about her interview, she just figured that if she had to choose, she knew which one it'd be.  
  
"No. I have to go." She can hear someone talking in the background and Clarke pictures her sitting up high on that waxy paper in a doctor's office, shirt still sweaty from practice, dirt and grass stains on her knees.  
  
"Ok love." She doesn't hear anything for a minute, then adds, "Hey. I love you. We'll make it through. We'll do this together, ok?"  
  
"Ok. Love you," Lexa says sadly before hanging up.  
  
  
  
Lexa hobbles out of the arrivals section, wheeled suitcase attached to a tether and dragging behind her like some little kid as she clutches the tether along with her crutches. Clarke abandons the car in the express lane outside as a traffic officer yells at her. She can't hear what he says but she can see Lexa struggling with her crutches and her suitcase and one of those damned boots and it all seems like overkill. Lexa has on a hat that covers her eyes, but she knows that they're puffy and red underneath.  
  
"I got it," Lexa huffs as Clarke opens the trunk and reaches for her suitcase.  
  
"No you don't." She wants it to sound final. She wants to do this and get out of this crazy airport and back home and back to whatever is in store next.  
  
"I said I got it, Clarke."  
  
"Get in the car, Lexa," she bites back and it's definitely too mean but cars are honking their horns behind her and Lexa's just not listening.  
  
She listens. She throws her crutches into the trunk before Clarke can pick up the suitcase and she's slouching in the front seat and pulling her hat even lower over her eyes.  
  
"Ma'am." Lexa can hear the severe voice behind and she wants to get out of the car and scream but she's just so tired. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ticket you. This lane is not for parking."  
  
"I'm sorry officer, my girlfriend, she broke her toe and she was traveling by herself and I just..." Clarke's slamming the trunk shut and her voice trails off so that Lexa can't hear. Clarke's already flustered by it and Lexa hasn't even really made it home yet. She's already getting in trouble and ready to yell or cry or just hug Lexa so tight and never let her go.  
  
  
  
"Sorry," Lexa whispers after a silent ride home, a $75 ticket crumbled in the center console. The car is parked in the driveway and they're both just sitting in it. Her voice is barely there.  
  
Clarke closes her eyes and shakes her head minutely, left elbow propped against the steering wheel, left hand rubbing her temple. She turns her head toward Lexa, opens her eyes, and sighs. She's never seen Lexa look like this. She reaches out to push Lexa's hat up so that it isn't covering her eyes, but Lexa doesn't meet her gaze.  
  
"Hey," Clarke whispers. Rain starts pelleting against the roof of the car and she wonders if she should say it again.  
  
But she doesn't have to. Lexa looks up at her and everything inside of Clarke aches. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, her nose red. Her eyes start to tear up again looking at Clarke.   
  
"Clarke," she says and it sounds so completely broken that Clarke loses it a bit, too. "What I am going to do?"  
  
"We'll make it through, babe," she says, as much a reminder to herself after the past several hours. "We'll do it together."  
  
"Rio." Lexa doesn't elaborate, but Clarke knows exactly what she's talking about. Sure, they'd won a World Cup last year and it was an experience of a lifetime, but the Olympics have always been something special for Lexa - the Opening Ceremonies, the pomp and circumstance, the atmosphere. Sometimes, late at night, when she knows Lexa's still awake and she's still awake too, Clarke asks Lexa to tell her what Rio will be like and she can feel Lexa smile behind her before she starts. It never fails to put Clarke to sleep listening to Lexa's soft whisper in her ear, trying her best at a few phrases of Portuguese she's been learning.   
  
But now everything's in jeopardy and Clarke's not exactly sure what will make it better, but she knows she has to help figure it out. "I know babe. Just concentrate on getting better. One step at a time," she says. Again, as much for herself as for Lexa.  
  
Lexa nods and Clarke knows she doesn't believe. This is going to be a battle.   
  
  
  
**We fall.**  
  
Some nights, Lexa falls asleep on the couch. She's never fallen asleep on the couch before. Clarke tries to wake her, tries to move her to their bed. But Lexa's out and she's heavy and Clarke's worried that she could just make things worse.  
  
Some nights, Lexa falls asleep around eight. Aside from being sick, she's never fallen asleep that early. Clarke doesn't try to wake her, though.  
  
Some nights she climbs into bed with her and notches her head under Lexa's chin and settles her arm across her abdomen and grips at her shirt as though she might lose her in the middle of the night.  
  
Some nights, Clarke can't fall asleep that early. Some nights, Clarke wants to show her that life just needs to keep moving. Some nights, Clarke drags her computer to bed and works because she has a deadline and she doesn't have any other choice.  
  
"Fuck, Clarke," Lexa growls, rolling to face her. "Do you have to be so loud?"  
  
"What?" She knows what she said but she kind of can't believe it.  
  
"The fucking music and the hammering at your keyboard and that gum you keep snapping." Lexa's eyes bore into her. They're bloodshot and sleepy and angry.  
  
"Jesus, Lex," she huffs, meeting Lexa's gaze head on. "Just tell me and I can change all of it, but I have a story due in 24 hours and it's nowhere close to being done."  
  
"Fine. Change it," she says, before rolling over and pulling the pillow over her head.  
  
Clarke's halfway to the door, blanket and computer in tow when she turns and says, "You know, you suck right now. I'm sorry, I don't know how else to say it."  
  
  
  
Most days feel the same. Clarke wakes while Lexa's still in bed, crutches propped up next to the bed, pillow that elevates Lexa's foot somewhere on the floor, having fallen in the night. She's on her way to work when Lexa's alarm clock goes off and before long she's headed out to the gym for her first workout. She said at one point that there's two she has to do: maintenance and rehab. Maintenance to maintain her physique. (Clarke's always been thankful for that maintenance, and glad that Lexa doesn't hold her to the same standards.) Rehab to ensure that she'll be ready to play when ten weeks is up. She can't do them back to back, the load is too much, so Lexa usually heads home for lunch and a nap, then back out. When she's back from her second session, she's done for the day and back asleep. Clarke always comes home to Lexa in bed or Lexa on the couch. She makes dinner or they order out. They talk sometimes, but not usually and not much. Sleep. Repeat.  
  
  
  
Lexa apologizes more, when she's not frustrated. She apologizes for changing the channel too often. She apologizes for leaving dirty dishes in the sink. She apologizes for flushing the toilet while Clarke's in the shower. She apologizes for missing Clarke's birthday. That's a big one.  
  
"I'm sorry." It sounds just the same as the others and Clarke thinks that she should be really angry about this but she just doesn't have it in her. She's not looking at Clarke, but Clarke knows she means it, even if she's heard it so many times lately. She's sure she means each one.   
  
"I love you, Lex," she says, taking a seat on the couch next to her and pushing Lexa's chin up so that she'll meet her eyes. Lexa looks a little taken aback at Clarke's response.  
  
"Love isn't about just the good times," Clarke continues. "I do wish we had more good times right now, but I can deal with this. Just don't let it last too long."  
  
Lexa looks back down at the fabric of the couch and nods, like it could be so easy.  
  
"Have you talked to coach about seeing a sports psychologist?"  
  
Lexa mentioned it once, that it was an option. The more Lexa apologizes, the more she sleeps, the more she snaps, the more Clarke thinks about it. It's time.   
  
"No." Lexa shakes her head and Clarke can tell that she's thought about it. Not hard enough and not to the point that she's willing to talk to Clarke about it, but she's thought about it.   
  
"Maybe you should," Clarke says. And if she's not going to look at her, Clarke's going to force some contact.  
  
This is her - trying. This is her - holding on.  
  
She grabs her hand and squeezes tight. So tight that she figures it must hurt Lexa at least a little bit but she just wants her to feel and Clarke's been trying so hard to reach her that this feels like the way, at least tonight.   
  
"Yeah." Lexa squeezes back.   
  
  
  
There are so few good times. She knows every relationship goes through periods like this, but she wonders if they're this bad. She wonders when the questions will go away. Does she still love me? Does she want to be around me? Will this ever get better? When?  
  
But ten weeks allows for a few good times. Mostly sex.  
  
They aren't having it as much.  But Lexa is still Lexa and Clarke is still Clarke and Lexa still has those abs and Clarke still has those boobs and even if Lexa can't stand to hear her voice sometimes and Clarke can't stand another minute of her sulking, they're still Lexa and Clarke.  
  
Having injury sex is a benefit and a curse. For one, it's sex. So, benefit. But, it's limited sex. So, curse. Sort of. It's a curse when Lexa tries to flip Clarke over and jams her foot into the bed to get leverage and Clarke thinks Lexa's broken her toe all over again with the way she cries out. After that it's a curse because Clarke won't let her do anything but lie on her back. But Lexa figures recovery can only happen quicker when she's on her back and sex is involved. She says something like that to Clarke anyway, something about endorphins and sex and making it more of a habit. Clarke laughs at her, but she's never been one to turn down sex.  
  
So Lexa keeps bringing it up (not as much as she used to, but Clarke's just glad that the drive is still there) and Clarke can't complain because it's the one thing that seems to keep her in a good mood these days.  
  
"I guess I can see one advantage to being home right now," Lexa says. She's pushed up on the bed, leaning back on her elbows while Clarke's at the foot of the bed, adjusting a couple of pillows beneath her foot for elevation.  
  
"Being around me?" She says, turning back and winking.  
  
"I was going to say sex." Lexa smirks and if it wasn't obvious with the mention of sex, she knows that the smirk is the topper.  
  
Clarke misses the smirking Lexa, the playful Lexa. She teases it out. "Well you can't have sex if you're not around me."  
  
"I could," Lexa replies, wagging her eyebrows.  
  
"Oh really?" Clarke huffs, stopping everything and crossing her arms in faux anger.  
  
"Nah," Lexa grins and Clarke just wants to cry because it's been so long since she's seen her like this. She's missed that face and those eyes lighting up, looking at her.  
  
"You can't even pretend," she says, breaking with a smile. "You can't even make something up. You're smitten."  
  
"No," Lexa replies, still grinning. "I'm hopelessly devoted to you."  
  
She's heard that line before. Several times. It's one of Lexa's favorites. One of her go-to movies for quotes and plane rides and rainy days. Clarke bites. This is fun Lexa and she hasn't been out in ages and she wants to play along. "Ok, Sandy. I'm not about to play Danny Zuko over here. Get a grip."  
  
"Seriously, Clarke," Lexa has that look Clarke has seen before, like she simultaneously has a great idea and a great joke. "You do look hot in a leather jacket."  
  
"Leather does it for you, huh?" Now she's wagging her eyebrows at Lexa.   
  
"You knew that," Lexa says, cheeks suddenly heating up.  
  
"I don't think I did." Clarke keeps her eye on Lexa but backs a few steps across the room so that she can access the closet. "So am I going to get some leather chaps for my birthday now?" Birthdays might be a sore subject, but she thinks that they're in a good enough groove now.   
  
"Just that jacket that you have is fine by me." With that, Clarke turns and finds it tucked up against some of her newly dry-cleaned dresses.   
  
Clarke's got on one of her old oxford shirts from college, top three buttons undone and just some white socks and while her back is to Lexa, it's got her wondering if maybe she should have worked the Tom Cruise and  _Risky Business_ angle instead. She wouldn't mind seeing Clarke shake around in that outfit and sing a little Bob Seger.   
  
"This one," Clarke says, snapping Lexa's attention back to the closet, where she's holding up a leather motorcycle jacket. It's been a while since she's seen it. Maybe not since New Year's Eve, when they'd just barely made it past midnight at Clarke's friend's house before they were getting handsy in a cab on the way back to Mulberry Street.  
  
"Yeah." Lexa's lost in the memory of that night, Clarke putting the jacket back on after taking everything else off.   
  
"You like me in leather," Clarke repeats, almost to herself. She sets the jacket down on the dresser and roots around in the bottom drawer. Lexa knows what's in that drawer. She pushes herself up off her elbows and leans forward on the bed, looking past her leg elevated on the pillow.  
  
"I like you in rubber," Clarke muffles into the drawer. Lexa knows what she's looking for.  
  
"Kinky, Clarke. But if you're looking for what I think you're looking for, then you like me better in silicone."  
  
Lexa ducks just before the dildo hits her in the face.  
  
"Could have killed me with that, babe," she says as she turns around to grab it. "Or given me a black eye or something."  
  
"You want me in the jacket," Clarke says, slipping the oxford over her head. With what she's working with, Lexa questions whether she wants Clarke to put the jacket on at all. "I want you in that."  
  
"You wouldn't let me just a few weeks ago." That was the incident with the leverage and the toe. It ended with Lexa's foot back up on the pillow, Clarke taping ice to her toe, and neither satisfied.   
  
"You were going to hurt yourself." The leather jacket's on now and the oxford's somewhere on the floor and Lexa decides that she definitely likes the jacket. There's nothing underneath and that jacket doesn't have much coverage, so she knows she'll get the show she's hoping for. "You did hurt yourself, in fact."  
  
She nearly forgets what they're arguing about and she's glad it's not a real argument like so many of their others as of late. "And I'm not today?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Ok?" Lexa says, drawing it out.  
  
"Cause you're going to lie back," Clarke says, throwing one leg over Lexa's, "and I'm going to do all the work."  
  
"Oh." Just like that, her mouth is dry and she's unhinged.  
  
"Strap up, tiger." Clarke dangles the harness between them and pulls a lip between her teeth.   
  
Lexa grabs the harness and she just can't help it as she blurts, "Tell me about it, stud."   
  
"Ok Lex," Clarke says with a full laugh that makes Lexa wish they could just forget about these past few weeks, just go back to the old Lexa and Clarke. "I think Sandy's worn out her welcome in our bedroom. No more  _Grease_."  
  
"So many grease jokes I could make. One more."  
  
"No." Clarke's smiling and Lexa knows she's got her.  
  
"It's a good one."  
  
"Ugh. Fine."  
  
Clarke's hands are on the dildo now and Lexa's not even sure if she remembers the quote. "If you can't be an athlete, be an athletic supporter."  
  
"That's...awful. And Sandy didn't say that," she says with another of those laughs. "Do you want to have sex, or not?"  
  
"Yes. Sorry. Yes."  
  
Clarke doesn't mind that apology at all. .  
  
  
  
She hates to think it, but during these ten weeks, Clarke's favorite time with Lexa is when she's asleep (aside from the handful of times that they're having sex). Lexa sulks and apologizes and dwells in the dark more than ever before. But sleep affords her a different Lexa. When she wakes up next to her Lexa's are eyes still closed, brow just barely furrowed like it always is in her sleep, like she's working out some problem because there are just so many problems and too little time.  
  
Some days Clarke wakes up next to her and Lexa's curled in on her back, finger laced in Clarke's hair.  
  
Some days Clarke wakes up next to her and Lexa's mouth is wide open from sleeping on her back all night.  
  
Some days Clarke wakes up next to her and Lexa's not even touching her. That never used to happen.   
  
But each morning, the day before is erased. At least for Clarke.  
  
Each morning brings Clarke an innocent, peaceful Lexa, unencumbered by injury and sadness.  
  
Each day is a new day to fall again.  
  
And she does.  
  
Some days she has to try harder than others, but she's thankful for these days, too.  
  
And somewhere in these ten weeks she realizes that she doesn't need to be on high in order to fall. Yes, being on high makes falling a thrill, but being so low makes falling familiar. They've had a lot of thrills in these few years and Clarke doesn't mind a little more of the familiar.   
  
  
  
**I remember.**  
  
I remember the call from coach, two months out from the Olympics. She was calling about the final roster. I'd only been at full health for a handful of weeks and I knew I might not make it. I knew I might miss the Olympics again. I wouldn't let you in the same room as me. I was too worried that I wasn't going to make it. After the call was over, I just sat in the room and cried and cried and I think you heard because you didn't come in or even knock for a long time. When you did, it was so tentative and you were whispering and you thought you knew and you sat on my lap and I wrapped my arms around you and buried my face into your neck. And then you pulled back suddenly and you were so mad because I was smiling into your neck even though I was crying. We looked at each other and I told you that you should book your trip to Rio and those ten awful weeks all felt worth it for the smile you gave me.  
  
I remember the night before the team's flight took off. I couldn't sleep and I wouldn't let you sleep so we did the thing we always do when neither of us can sleep. My Portuguese had really come along at that point.  
  
I remember Opening Ceremonies. I knew you were out in the crowd with my parents and your mom. They paid so much money for those tickets but they insisted. Well, really, your mom insisted on it. More than you or my parents, Abby was going to be at the Opening Ceremonies come hell or high water. And I kept trying to send you pictures of all of the athletes we were posing with, and me in my stupid American skirt and beret, but the cell lines were so busy, so I couldn't show you until the next time I saw you, after our first game.  
  
I remember going down in the second match of pool play. It felt like it was something with my foot. Same one. I thought I might throw up. It was one of the scariest moments of my life. It made me feel like maybe those miserable ten weeks weren't worth anything at all.  Like maybe all that fighting and my piss poor behavior were just leading to something awful like this. Like maybe I never deserved to be on the roster in the first place. They pulled me off the field and once I got to the sidelines and could calm down, I realized I was just shaken up and I'd be ok. I spent the rest of the game with divided attention, watching the ball one second and looking in the stands to find you in the next. I wanted to find you because I knew you were thinking the same things and one look would remind us that it was all worth it after all.   
  
I remember the final whistle. I fell to my knees at center field. With the injury and the stress, I'd cried a lot in the time leading up to the Olympics and I was always embarrassed and ashamed. There are only a few things I've ever wanted to do in life, that I've ever felt like I could do well in life. For a long time those things were soccer and school. When school ended, it was just soccer. But not for long. Very quickly it became soccer and you, creeping in and filling my head and my heart. Winning it all in Rio, I felt complete. So I cried freely in that huge stadium and I wasn't embarrassed or ashamed.  
  
I remember the podium and the national anthem. I remember the gold medal draped around my neck. You were part of that celebration. That gold medal was ours, Clarke.  
  
I don't remember the celebration. Not a lick of it.  
  
I remember after the after party, the hotel lobby. No that's that R. Kelly song. Our after the after party was in your room and we both fell asleep before I could whisper in your ear that I wanted you to take your shirt off and straddle me with the gold medal hanging between my favorite part of you. Instead we fell asleep in our red, white, and blue. (But it all happened the next morning, so I guess I don't have much to complain about.)  
  
I remember arguing about whether to hang the medal in the house. I was worried that we'd be robbed and I said that it should just go to our safe deposit box at the bank. You wanted it proudly displayed above the fireplace. You won of course. You always win. I'll win on the field, at least for a little while longer, but I'll always let you win everywhere else, Clarke. For the rest of our lives.


	3. Chapter 3

**We meet.**  
  
They couldn't decide exactly how they wanted to do it. Clarke's dad wasn't around, so that crossed one tradition off of the list. No church, obviously, so that crossed off another. For the first few months they'd found that at the end of each day they'd only crossed ideas off the list.  
  
Until Clarke discovered Pinterest.  
  
After that, Clarke spent hours upon hours pinning and liking and saving and whatever else you do on that site every night while Lexa sat in the bed beside mumbling affirmatives over her reading glasses.  
  
There were nights that seemed to go on for hours with Clark's face illuminated by the bluish light of the computer screen and Lexa fast asleep beside her. There were nights that started off Pinterest-free with dinner parties and friends and wine and quickly turned into Abby and Anya and teammates and colleagues crowded around Clarke's computer agreeing and laughing and imagining. There were even a few nights where Lexa stayed up, too - where she would lean over and pin and like and save and whatever else. And Clarke's heart would flutter and she'd bite her lower lip and she'd almost shut the laptop on Lexa's hand with her excitement.  
  
It would be the night of their lives. It would be perfect. It would be "the very definition of love." (When Clarke used those words, Lexa rolled her eyes and nearly closed the laptop on Clarke's hand before pushing her into the mattress and explaining that she'd show Clarke "the very definition of love.")  
  
Of course the idea of "perfect" and weddings just doesn't exist.  
  
"Clarke, the florist called," Lexa yells into the fridge when she hears the front door open and Clarke's heels flying off somewhere in the foyer. "She said something about those flowers you wanted. I don't remember what she said, but I took her number down. Said you should call her right away."  
  
Clarke drops her bag on the kitchen counter and furrows her brow at Lexa. "You don't remember what she said?"  
  
"Something about the flowers." Lexa says, pulling her body and an orange out of the fridge. To be fair, the phone call had been hours ago, but she knew that she should have remembered what the florist said. She knew she'd hear this tone in Clarke's voice.  
  
"Of course something about the flowers, Lex, she's our florist."  
  
"It'll be ok. I'm sure she still has flowers."  
  
Not the right thing to say. Clarke huffed for a few moments before responding. "It's not about having flowers, it's about having _our_ flowers."  
  
Too many more of these conversations and Lexa was seriously considering dragging Clarke to Vegas."Well we can get married without flowers, too."  
  
 "I can't believe you."The phone was already dialing as Clarke stepped out of the room.  
  
  
  
There were more of those phone calls and emails. One from the DJ and another from the caterer and pretty soon Lexa knew exactly how to react. Clarke would inevitably steam and storm and Lexa would hide in the couch awaiting her fury. Clarke would throw herself into the couch and Lexa's arms, unfurling a horde of curses and frustration and sometimes tears and Lexa would hold her tight until her breath evened out and her tears dried. Lexa would think again about Vegas and then think again lest those curses and frustration and tears direct her way.   
  
At one point, it had all seemed so far away. She'd proposed and it was just a tiny glimmer in her mind - the buildup was to the proposal. Clarke had said 'yes' and Lexa had lived in that awed, hoarse 'yes' for weeks to come. They'd crossed ideas off the list and it was just routine, it was something that everyone thought about. Clarke had started pinning and liking and saving and whatever else and it felt like some demented computer game with too many emotions.  
  
And then, suddenly, the day had arrived.   
  
"Are you ready?" Anya asks. She's clasping her necklace and looking at herself in the floor-length mirror of the suite. She makes eye contact with Lexa in the reflection.  
  
"Yes." Lexa's turning Clarke's ring over and over in her hands. They'd foregone another tradition and opted to keep the other's rings in their possession. Clarke had suggested it and it made no difference to Lexa and now here she was, watching the light hit the diamonds and tracing her finger over the engraving inside the band.  
  
"Nervous?" Anya's got that same tone she used growing up. The one that looks to pick and prod and tempt Lexa into losing control of herself.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Lexa just shakes her head.  
  
"Why?" Anya never lets up. She didn't let up when Lexa would slice past her in soccer practice and she'd have to run laps for a slide tackle from behind. She didn't let up when Lexa wailed into her with her little fists and fury, fighting over the TV remote or the last cookie. She didn't let up when Lexa's first girlfriend broke her heart and her eyes were red and puffy for nearly a month. Lexa's grateful that she didn't let up then, that month might have extended to two or three or more.  
  
"I just want it to be perfect, I guess." Thoughts of Vegas are long gone. Remembered are all of the late nights pinning and pining over wedding details, Clarke always looking to her for approval.   
  
"Nothing's perfect," Anya retorts. "That's ridiculous."  
  
"I know. I mean, in reality, I know that. But that's what Clarke wants. I just want it to be perfect for her." Lexa flips the ring again, the diamonds gleaming in the dim light of the room. "I think maybe that's part of what marriage is about, An. You want to be able to give someone everything they want because that's all you want."  
  
"Disgusting."  
  
  
  
There's no one waiting at the altar. There's no altar. There's just two sets of chairs facing each other. Fifty chairs on one side, fifty chairs on another. It was Clarke's idea. Actually, she'd probably seen this somewhere on Pinterest, too. It was Clarke's idea and it almost didn't make it into the wedding.  
  
Lexa had laughed at it, at first. She hadn't meant to. They were in bed, Clarke with her laptop in her lap, pinning and liking and saving and whatevering, Lexa was watching an old Premier League game. Clarke nudged her, like she always did. Lexa nodded, barely looking up from the game, like she always did. It's not that she didn't care. She had some wedding ideas. There would be good food. There would be good music. She just knew that Clarke had better ideas. There would be no competition here. Clarke's perfect wedding would be Lexa's perfect wedding. They could elope and if that was Clarke's perfect wedding, it worked for Lexa. They could dress up like characters from Star Wars and if that was Clarke's perfect wedding, it worked for Lexa. So if Clarke wanted for them to stand backs to each other, thirty feet away, and turn around and walk toward each other when the music started - well, Lexa didn't care.  
  
It was just, when Clarke finally got her to pay attention to the idea, she couldn't get the image out of her mind. She had this image of a showdown in a Western movie, where Clarke's fingers twitched at her side from across the way and a lone crow cawed in the distance and she couldn't help it. Maybe there'd be a guy playing a harmonica and one of those tumbleweeds would blow between them. The more she cackled next to Clarke, the more the details filled themselves in and the louder her laughs became until she had tears in her eyes. And Clarke had tears in her eyes, too. But she wasn't laughing.  
  
It had taken a long time to bring Clarke back down from that gaffe.  
  
And now her back is to Clarke and Clarke's back is to her and their backs are to their families and friends and teammates. Lexa isn't thinking about tumbleweeds or shootouts, though she's sure that Anya is. She never should have told Anya about that.  
  
Instead, she's thinking about vows and sweaty palms and how beautiful Clarke probably is in her dress.  
  
When the music starts, she turns slowly. It's the longest moment of her life. Longer than waiting for Clarke to kiss her after she walked her to Clarke's front door on their first date. Longer than waiting for Clarke to finally agree to move in with her after college, despite their short time together. Longer than waiting to say "I love you." It seems Lexa had known from the moment she met Clarke, but decorum told her that she had to wait. And wait. And wait.  
  
The thing about waiting, she found, was that the longer you wait, the better it feels. Clarke wasn't too keen on waiting, but Lexa didn't mind drawing it out.  
  
Their eyes meet first. She doesn't even see the dress.  
  
She feels the prick of tears brim in her eyes. Without so much as a second thought to the music playing and the crowd sniffling around them, Lexa's feet carry her to Clarke.  
  
They meet in the middle, like they've done their whole lives together, like they'll continue to do once marriage binds them.  
  
  
  
**We fall.**  
  
Lexa's hands reach for Clarke's and Clarke holds out her hands. They're a little sweaty and Lexa's relieved to know that Clarke is right there with her in every way. There are tears in Clarke's eyes and Lexa can tell that she's trying to hold back.  
  
Before the officiant can say anything, Lexa leans into her and whispers, "Everything ok so far?"  
  
"Perfect," Clarke's breath is shaky and Lexa doesn't want to pull back to look at Clarke because she's so afraid she'll start crying so she holds beside her ear for just a moment longer.  
  
  
  
It is perfect. Even though the flowers aren't the exact blue hydrangeas and white lilies Clarke wanted. Even though the DJ forgets to play Clarke's favorite song. Even though the caterer runs out of that shrimp appetizer that Lexa liked so much.   
  
It's nothing like they'd planned, and yet Clarke holds tight to her perfect day, which in turn is Lexa's perfect day, too. They spend so much time greeting family members and friends that they barely eat or dance or drink. But when the DJ announces the final song, Clarke and Lexa can't help but fall into one another. This time, no one is there to interrupt, to say goodbye, to wish them well. Amidst all of their friends and family, they are the only two people on the dance floor, cheek to sweaty cheek.   
  
"More and more every day, huh?" Clarke says, echoing Lexa's wedding vows from the ceremony.   
  
"More and more every day." Lexa whispers, pulling back and pushing a strand of sweaty blonde hair from Clarke's forehead.   
  
"More than one hour ago?" Clarke smiles, her hands clasping behind Lexa's shoulders and running a finger against the back of her neck.   
  
"More than one hour ago." Lexa returns her smile.   
  
"More than one minute ago?" Clarke had cried in earnest at these vows. They'd decided to write their own and Lexa had felt so suddenly alone without Clarke's incessant planning. She hadn't finished them until the night before, after a few whiskies and some real talk with Anya.   
  
"More than one minute ago." With Clarke's fingers against her neck and the day catching up to them, Lexa's eyes feel heavy. She leans her forehead against Clarke's.   
  
"I love you." Clarke says against her lips.   
  
"I love you." She whispers back.   
  
Clarke can't think of a day more perfect and Lexa's right there beside her.   
  
Each day, each hour, each minute is another chance to fall. It's a thrill and it's familiar.  
  
  
**  
I remember.**

I remember seeing you in that dress. There's something so cliché about wedding dresses and the 'big reveal' and all of that, but it's a memory I could never forget. I didn't even see your dress at first. I just wanted to look into your eyes. I was so nervous and seeing you looking back at me made me feel like I was the only person in front of you. So when I finally looked down to see you in your dress, it was like learning to breathe again. Like I had to remember to breathe in and breathe out because you were so beautiful everything inside of me forgot how to be.   
  
I remember you seeing me in my suit. When I decided to wear a suit, I wasn't sure how you'd react. I had never really worn many dresses around you before, maybe one to a banquet at the end of senior year and another to an awards show a few years ago. With all of that Pinterest stuff you were doing, I assumed that you'd tell me what to wear and I waited and waited and you didn't say anything. When I finally asked, you told me I could wear whatever I wanted. Something about that gray suit just felt right. Righter than a dress, anyway. I felt a little embarrassed about it and I didn't want to tell Anya or my mom. And when I saw myself in your eyes, all of that washed away. You looked at me the way I look at you.   
  
I remember we barely ate anything. We spent so much time visiting with our guests and dancing and drinking and singing and at the end of the night we leaned into each other and almost fell over with exhaustion. My teammates teased me about 'wedding night shenanigans,' but when we got back to our room you insisted that we order a pizza and finally eat something for the first time all day. We laughed so hard the next morning when we woke up with an open pizza box on the bedside table, my tie loosened around my neck, and your spanx still on.  
  
The next morning was our wedding night instead. We didn't make it to the family brunch until there was just an hour left and we were greeted with hoots and hollers and our faces were both so, so red. Of course, they knew that we'd had our fun that morning, but they didn't know that only an hour before, as we were rushing to make the brunch, you were on your knees in front of me in the shower.   
  
I remember the honeymoon in Hawaii. I remember the bed in Hawaii most of all. I think you probably do, too. Every angle of that bed. And of the couch that was pushed up against the bed. And of that sliding glass door that looked out over the ocean. I remember that horrified look on your face the next morning when you remembered that we drank a bottle of champagne and I pushed you up against that glass door while you moaned my name.   
  
I remember coming home after the honeymoon. I was a few shades darker, you a little redder. It felt a little like we just returned back to normal. Same last names. Same house on Mulberry Street.  But it felt a little like everything had changed.


	4. Chapter 4

**We meet.**  
  
"Where is she?" She's in the university-issued polo shirt. She's been in the university-issued polo shirt for almost 36 hours. This had been part of the plan. Lexa would continue on recruiting trips. Clarke would call her when the time was right. She was only a plane ride away. A plane ride through storms and turbulent weather that turned from a simple plane ride into delay after delay after delay until Lexa was renting a car and driving eight hours rather than spend the night in the airport.  
  
"I told you that you should have taken some time off, Lex." Anya scolds from the corner of the room.  
  
"Shut up, Anya," Lexa bites back. If she could go back to their youth, to a time when it was completely ok to hit her, she would. She almost does until she hears her mother's voice.  
  
"Not now, Anya," her mother says, almost simultaneously.  
  
"Where's Clarke?" she asks again, frantic.  
  
"They just took her into surgery," her mother answers. It's calm and soothing, like she always is. "Abby's in there with her."  
  
"Oh god, what happened?" Lexa's pulling at her hair, and rubbing her hand against the back of her neck without thinking. The tears spill freely from her eyes as she imagines all the things that have gone wrong.  
  
"There were some complications," again calm and soothing and it feels like anything but.  
  
"Like what?" Her mother can barely hear her as she clasps her hand over her mouth.  
  
"The baby's heart rate was elevated. She'd been pushing for hours." Hours. Their baby. 'Bean,' Clarke had called her. When they received word that Clarke was pregnant, Lexa took the rest of the day off and they spent an entire afternoon perusing baby books in the bookstore. They'd stumbled across a section in one that tracked the baby's development and size. At four weeks, baby was a poppy seed. At six, a lentil. Then, at eight, a kidney bean. Somehow, Bean had stuck.  
  
"Was she waiting for me? Oh god...mom." Tears spring from her mother's eyes as she wraps Lexa in a hug and attempts to pacify her in another way.  
  
"No, Lex. God, no honey." She says into Lexa's neck. She feels Lexa shake against her. "Labor was taking too long and the baby was in distress. It's what the doctor recommended. Abby thought so, too."  
  
"Is she going to be ok? Is our baby going to be ok?" Lexa feels like she can't breathe, like the world is falling apart around her.  
  
No one responds.  
  
She pulls back and asks again, louder. "Is she going to be ok?" Anger and fear well inside and take up residence.  
  
Anya stands and reaches for her. "Lex, let's go for a walk." This isn't typical Anya, but it's an Anya she's seen before. This is the Anya that convinced her that she'd love again after her first girlfriend broke her heart. This is the Anya that helped her write her vows the night before the wedding.  
  
"No," she says to Anya, then, turning back to her mother. "Can I go see her?"  
  
"No one's allowed in the surgery, Lexa," Anya says, hand still extended.  
  
"But Abby..." Her face twists up uncontrollably and she fights the urge to slam her fists against the cold window pane and the bright sun shining through. The sun shouldn't be shining. The sky shouldn't be this blue.  
  
"Walked her up there and is talking with the doctors," her mother finishes.  
  
"Do I get to talk to the doctors?"  
  
"They're probably already in surgery, honey." She feels her mother's hand against her back. She used to do this to help Lexa fall asleep. It offers little comfort now.  
  
"So, what can I do?" she asks, turning to look at her mother. "What do I do?"  
  
Her mother looks back at her with the same pained expression. "Abby should be back down here soon."

Lexa looks at back out the window, angry at the sun and the sky, at doctors and hospitals, at her mother and Anya and her father, who's wandered off. But most of all, angry at herself. She still figures none of this would have happened if she just would have stayed home.   
  
  
  
"Lexa." She hears a voice. It's dark. The sun's gone down and the sky's no longer blue. Anya is curled up on a chair across the room and Abby is leaning over her. "Lexa, wake up."  
  
"Clarke?" It's her first instinct. Ever since that first date, it's always been her first instinct. She places herself and asks, "Is everything...is she alright?"  
  
"Yes." Abby says. She's smiling and crying and hovering over her as Lexa unwinds herself from the chair to stand. She's smiling and crying and Lexa's brows furrow because she's never seen Abby do all of these things at once.   
  
"And our baby?" Lexa asks, eyes widening, still waking up, still comprehending.  
  
"She's waiting for you." Abby reaches out to grab Lexa's hands and her tears drop from her cheeks and onto their joined hands. Lexa's never seen Abby so emotional, not at their wedding, not when they announced that Clarke was pregnant.  
  
"She's here?" Lexa asks with a whisper. She's looking to the door before Abby can answer.  
  
"She's here," Abby squeezes her hands. "She's beautiful, Lexa."  
  
It takes forever and no time at all. They wind through the halls of the hospital, up a flight of stairs, past the nurses' station, around the corner, through a lobby with blues and pinks and cigars and fathers clapping one another on their backs.  
  
Until they're in front of a nursery.  
  
"There she is, Lexa," Abby points to one in the front row. "Your baby girl."  
  
The first thing Lexa sees is the tiny striped beanie that Anya bought them for the baby shower. It's pushed halfway down her forehead and contrasts with her bright pink skin.  Her eyebrows are barely there and her eyelids are almost translucent and she looks so peaceful. If she could look closely enough, Lexa would see her nostrils just barely moving as she breathes in and out, slowly in and out. Her lips push out every so often and Lexa watches and wonders if this means it's time to feed her. She'll find out soon enough. She'd kept her composure up until that point. The beanie, the eyebrows, the eyelids, the nostrils, the lips. It's the chin that has her welling up and clasping a hand to her mouth. It's dimpled. Just like Clarke's. She can't believe Clarke made this thing. And she knows Clarke would be so mad at her for thinking that. They'd had conversations about how she would be "their" baby, but Lexa's just so in awe of how much that chin is Clarke's chin. She hasn't seen her eyes yet, but she knows that she'll have Clarke's eyes, too.  
  
Soon enough, she'll have two sets of those eyes looking at her and she just won't be able to say 'no' to anything ever.  
  
  
  
**We fall.**  
  
There's no one moment. There aren't even a series of moments. Lexa's in the rocking chair in Clarke's room and her fingers gently smooth the wisps of hair on her head. She nuzzles her nose and breathes in her scent and it's a memory she'll never forget. She whispers: "Meeting you is the same as falling for you. My love." Clarke sleepily opens her eyes and reaches out to touch Lexa's hand and Lexa knows she feels the same.   
  
  
  
**I remember.**  
  
I remember our first night with you. We couldn't sleep. Oh how I wish we would have just slept. Little did we know that soon we'd be taking every sleeping opportunity we could get. But that first night, we couldn't sleep. We both sat up in bed against the headboard and took turns holding you and holding onto each other. It all felt so fragile for a moment, like you both could have been swept away from me as easily as a storm sweeping through in April. I didn't want to sleep because I wanted to remember everything that first night, even the anger and the fear. It was that anger and fear that made that night so sweet, I think.   
  
I remember how we'd have to clip your tiny fingernails to keep you from scratching yourself. You'd wail and flail yourself to sleep so many days and nights and your momma and I would wonder where these tiny scratch marks came from. That went on for a few weeks before Abby nearly reduced Clarke to tears, scolding her for not cutting your nails. How were we to know? The baby books had been pushed aside weeks ago in favor of sweet, sweet sleep. After that, we clipped those tiny nails every few nights.   
  
I remember the look of awe in your eye when you'd see your momma. I know that look because I have it, too.  
  
I remember the second sleepless night (and the first one that you caused). We were in shifts at that point, so that neither one of us would have a sleepless night. And then you ruined that plan. Your temperature spiked in the night and your momma was on the phone with your grandma Abby every hour. We sat in the bathroom, taking turns holding you, steaming the shower to clear your breathing. Soon, you were fast asleep, but we stayed up all night keeping an eye on you. You gave us a few scares back then.   
  
I remember your first birthday. You had no idea what was happening. You couldn't open presents, though you could tear some of the wrapping away. Your eyes lit up at the rocking horse your grandmother got you. It was a little too big and I had to hold onto you from behind it. We have so many pictures of you on that rocking horse. It would be a favorite for years to come.  
  
I remember the first time we left you with your grandma Abby. Your momma and I hadn't had a night alone together in nearly a year. We'd fallen so deeply in love with you that we forgot about us for a while. Your grandma insisted and when we picked you up the next morning, her eyes bloodshot and you fast asleep, we knew that it'd be another long while before we had a night alone together again.   
  
I remember deciding to hang up my boots. That's what we call it in the pros. You wouldn't know. You just know that mom used to play soccer and now she coaches soccer. Now she coaches you in soccer, but she also coaches 'the big girls.' Now, you curl up next to me when I put on the Gunners early in the morning and you shout things like "Offside" and "Penalty" only because you've heard me yell them on the sidelines, too.   
  
I remember introducing you to my old teammates. Most of them had babies of their own, so they understood when your eyes suddenly got big and filled with tears and you turned your head into my neck and cried and cried. A few hours later, you were playing blocks on the floor with the other kids and I was finally free to have a beer and your momma was glad for a day to herself.   
  
I remember your first day of school. It was only this morning. Your momma and I took the day off. At first we reveled in our solitude. But then we missed the patter of your feet and the high-pitched sing-songy melody you repeat when you try to tie your shoe. We won't miss those things long. You'll be home soon and in a few months you'll be a big sister.  
  
There was a time when I never thought I'd fall in love. And after that, there was a time when I never thought I'd fall in love again. When I did, it ached and grew until my heart felt like it couldn't hold it all in. After I met your momma, I didn't think my heart had any room left. But each day that I fell in love with her, my heart grew. It made room. And then we met, little Bean. We fell for you, your momma and me. And I'll always remember why my heart beats – it’s for your momma, for you, and for your little brother, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't tumbl much, but i'll tumbl for you. 
> 
> factorsofex


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